


I Cook With Wine (Sometimes I Even Put It In The Food)

by Swordy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Before the weight of the world crushed them, Fluff and Humor, I love them all I swear, M/M, Possible fourth wall issues, Secret Crush, Set early game, Silly Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 21:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15180272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: Ignis is in love with Gladio but has no intention of ever telling him. However, annoying campmates and a little too much wine might spell the end of Ignis's secret...





	I Cook With Wine (Sometimes I Even Put It In The Food)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElenaHana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenaHana/gifts).



> A little while back, I was discussing projects that would probably never see the light of day with Hanatsuki. I sent her a snippet of a story (which admittedly I’d started for my own amusement) and it made her laugh, so I decided to blow the dust off it and finish it as a birthday gift for her. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, my lovely! I’m sorry it’s a little late.
> 
> Also, thank you to Atropa for the assist! As always, comments and kudos are gratefully received. <3

They're like a well-oiled machine once they've made the decision to camp.

Gladio can erect their tent faster than he can get dressed, which is pretty impressive considering most of Gladio’s outfits are made up of mainly his own skin. Noctis deals with the campfire and the rest of their equipment along with Prompto, who’s more useful now he's stopped snapping photos every thirty seconds. He'd probably still be doing it, if it hadn't been pointed out to him that after so many camps, all his pictures are starting to look the same.

As always, the food preparation duties fall to him. This was never the plan, but after Noctis almost set fire to his apartment trying to make toast and Gladio extols the virtues of Cup Noodles like they personally sponsor him, Regis had taken him to one side and apologetically asked if he would kindly ensure that his son received some semblance of a balanced diet.

He'd approached the task like he did with everything else - copious amounts of research, endless lists, punishing amounts of practice. Although initially resenting being given yet another duty, he'd grown to find it interesting - taking the different ingredients and experimenting with how certain flavours fused together - and then actually enjoyable. Now, he values the time spent in quiet reflection whilst preparing the meal as much as the satisfaction of sated appetites and contented faces afterwards.

Well, in theory that was how it worked.

Sometimes, it can rank up there with mending Noct’s socks (stinky) and washing Gladio’s smalls (sweaty).

Unfortunately, tonight is gearing up to be one of those nights.

Prompto has kicked off the proceedings, with a hyperactive combination of a day spent chocobo racing and the anticipation of seeing Cindy in a few days’ time. The sum of these things result in Prompto talking so much and so fast that he's in danger of passing out through lack of oxygen - _please Gods, let that happen_ \- even though every other sentence aimed at him has included the words ‘ _breathe, Prompto_!’ - or Gladio’s minor rearrangement of these words - ‘ _for fuck’s sake, Prompto, stop talking or I'll make you stop breathing_ ’ - which is _almost_ the same thing.

Prompto’s hyperactivity has now extended to what he hopes they're having for dinner tonight (chilli, it’s always chilli). As a rule, as head chef, he operates on a ‘you'll get what you're given’ principle, which there's very little objection to since no one else could do any better. In the right mood, he is happy to entertain their suggestions, and the appropriate amount of flattery that comes with each one.

Tonight, however, all their requests fall on deaf ears. When they were last in Lestallum, he picked up a new recipe from the chef at The Leville, as well as finally getting his hands on a much-coveted Duscaen merlot that will go _perfectly_ with the dish. They're camping at Digythe haven and the weather has been pleasantly warm for the last few days, so the meal is going to be _splendid_.

The thought of good food soothes his slightly frayed nerves. Although they knew all knew each other in varying degrees before they left Insomnia, its an entirely different kettle of fish to be around the same people twenty-four, seven. Frankly, it’s a good job they’re all such calm, mature men or Six only knows what might happen.

The crash from somewhere over his right shoulder makes him jump. When he glances around, he discovers it’s Prompto who has fallen over one of the tent's guy ropes and almost pitched himself off the edge of the haven, causing the nearly-assembled tent to collapse on top of Gladio who was working inside it.

“FOR FUCK'S SAKE,” Gladio roars, fighting his way free from the destroyed canvas. “It was almost erected!”

This generates a loud bark of laughter from Noct, who has appeared just in time to witness the whole spectacle, promptly causing him to drop everything he was carrying with a deafening clatter.

“Ahahaha, Prompto you killed his erection!”

See? Calm, mature men. Well, at least one of those things is true. 

From his position of safety across the campground, Ignis turns his attention back to the bottle of merlot in his hand and lets out a wearied, long-suffering sigh. Like a subconscious attempt to preserve his sanity, his eyes seek out the corkscrew nestled amongst the rest of his cooking utensils and an idea of utmost brilliance is formed.

“Just to sample it, you understand,” he says to no one in particular, reaching for the corkscrew with a final backwards glance at the chaos.

OoOoO

The merlot is _delicious_.

Its spiciness is a surprise - not an unpleasant one - but still a surprise given the more floral tones generally preferred in Cavaugh. The surprise aspects of its flavours naturally require a little more sampling, just to be certain. Or it could just be the sight of Noct and Prompto wrestling over the phone charger. Either way, he pours himself another quick glass, after a surreptitious check that the others haven’t noticed.

Time to start on dinner.

With his glass of merlot strategically placed (not hidden, you understand) down the side of the portable grill and the pleasant buzz of alcohol dancing through his system, he starts to unpack the ingredients, one by one. Saxham rice... various spices... just the vesprooms to locate. Frowning, he checks the now-empty box and the previously unpacked ingredients, just in case he’s overlooked them. When all avenues prove fruitless, he decides to outsource his search requirements to Noct, who's passing at that moment with his hard-won phone charger triumphantly in his grip.

“Noct?”

“Uh huh?”

“You haven’t seen the vesprooms I bought yesterday have you?”

Noct makes a face as if he’s just been asked something mind-bogglingly incomprehensible.

“You think I’d have taken your vegetables? Have you _met_ me?”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Ignis says with a sigh as Prompto wanders over to see what’s going on, rubbing his arm ruefully. “I’m certain I packaged them up with the rest of the ingredients that I purchased at the market.” He gestures to the items lying on the portable grill's worktop.

“So they were wrapped in brown paper?” Prompto asks, animated at the prospect of being able to solve this mystery and instantly forgetting about his injuries. “Just like the bait that fisherman recommended to you, Noct.”

“No,” Noct says, “That came in a box.”

“A box?” Prompto repeats, frowning. “I don’t remember it being in a box when you asked me to get it for you when we were back at that fishing hole.” Prompto then makes his thinking face, which Ignis is secretly convinced that he learned from the collection of emojis on his phone. “So if the bait was in a box, what did I throw into the water?”

“Presumably the vesprooms,” Ignis says flatly. “Four and a half pounds of Cleigne's finest vesprooms and you threw them at some fish.”

“I _knew_ there was a reason I didn’t catch anything!” Noct complains. “Why the hell did you throw vesprooms at them?”

“I didn’t know!” Prompto replies indignantly. “You said it was a super secret item that would draw in hundreds of fish. At no point did you say that super secret item wasn’t mushrooms!”

“Sorry, Specs,” Noct replies, ignoring Prompto as he rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Can you make do without them?”

“Hmmm, let me see,” he answers brightly, attempting his own version of Prompto's thinking face. “I’m pretty certain I can make a _sublime_ Packed Mushroom Stew without any actual mushrooms.”

“Phew!” Prompto says, grinning right up until the moment Noct whacks him in the stomach.

“He’s being sarcastic, moron.”

“Oh... right. Sorry, Ignis.” Prompto brightens suddenly. “You could make chilli?”

He knows at this point his expression could best be described as 'murderous'. Wisely, the two of them beat a hasty retreat, leaving him alone to make a start on his mushroomless wonder. His eyes slip past the ingredients to the wine.

“Just a little more,” he murmurs, crouching down like he’s checking something on the grill, whilst he takes a quick mouthful. And another.

OoOoO

In the end he settles on paella. Through the soothing act of food preparation, his irritation fades to nothingness - helpful really, since he spends a large amount of the time wielding a knife that could eviscerate mushroom-wasting idiots with a flick of his wrist. And the wine is really rather good. He will absolutely, _definitely_ add some to the paella once it’s cooking. There’s plenty - well, there’s _some_ , left.

For the most part he zones out of whatever else is going on whilst he works, but every so often, a noise from behind him makes him turn. Normally it’s just a quick check to make sure it’s nothing he should be intervening in, lest the evening be ruined by having to spend it mending torn clothes or dealing with a sudden outbreak of purple nurples and progeny-endangering wedgies. But when Gladio is the source of the disturbance, he finds himself staring for longer than is necessary. And healthy.

Because it’s safe to say that Gladiolus Amicitia is quite possibly the finest specimen of a human he’s ever known. Ignis knows for a fact that he could stand up and give an hour's lecture, complete with slides and graphs and Venn diagrams about why Gladio is perfect, but ultimately people would still choose to scoff and say _so it’s nothing to do with his pecs then_?

Which is not to say that he finds Gladio's physical appearance unappealing. On the contrary, Gladio's face and body have featured in his thoughts on countless occasions - usually when he has the luxury of a sturdy door and reasonably thick walls between himself and the others. Those muscles... and his tattoo. Only Gladio can make a beady-eyed, carrion-eating creature looks so good, even if its slightly unfortunate positioning makes it look as if it’s trying to peck off his nipple.

But no, it’s not looks that ensure Gladio is front and centre in his esteem. It’s all the little things - delightfully discovered through time spent in the other man's company. For example, being the group's principal driver has allowed him to observe Gladio whilst he sits in the back of the car reading. Glancing back at him in the rearview mirror, he’s observed the charming habit Gladio has of telegraphing his reaction to what he’s reading across his ridiculously handsome face.

Gladio's poorly concealed amusement is enjoyable to watch, but it’s the twitch of a frown, that he’s learned to interpret as a prelude to what he really hungers for. Because Gladio is a voracious reader, particularly in the area of historical conflicts and the rulers of yore, and Ignis has come to realise that the frown indicates a subject matter that Gladio will almost certainly want to discuss and dissect later whilst the other two are engrossed in King's Knight. Their debates are intelligent and thought-provoking and though they don’t always agree, they've never once exchanged a cross word.

Right now, Gladio is polishing his great sword, which sadly isn’t a euphemism for anything more exciting. He is, however, doing it having dispensed of all of his upper clothing, which makes for a tremendously pleasant sight if nothing else. He really should—

“Ow,” he gasps, eyes finally dragged from studying Gladio to see the slice he’s taken out of his own finger - his intended target, an uncut pepper, lying there mockingly. “For the love of—”

“Iggy?” And suddenly Gladio is _right there_ beside him, eyebrows knitted in concern. “You okay? What did you do?”

“It’s nothing,” he rushes to say, although the words are lost with his lips pressed against the offending finger.

“Let me see.”

And, _oh gods_ , Gladio is _so gentle_. He insists on bathing and dressing the wound, all the while talking about how peppers can harbour certain bacteria and how you can never be too careful. Gladio is so knowledgeable about nature, he nods mutely through the impromptu lesson, all the while internally panicking about the close proximity and the fact that Gladio is actually touching him, certain that the physical contact will allow the other man to see into his soul.

Once Gladio's done, he thanks him before excusing himself and returning to the food preparation, hastily disposing of the peppers with their unfortunate hemoglobin glaze. He studies Gladio's back as he returns to his stash of weapons. Incredibly, he can still feel Gladio's hands on him. _Six have mercy_ , how is he going to share a tent with the other man tonight? With that thought his eyes stray downwards.

The wine.

A liberal application of more of the merlot is just what he needs. When he goes to pour himself another glass, he’s mildly horrified to discover that he's almost emptied the bottle. Ah well, at least they bought two.

OoOoO

Somehow, although the exact details escape him, he manages to conjure up a meal that doesn't contain either mushrooms or any of his body parts. He opens the second bottle of the wine, but when he tries to pour anyone else a glass they inform him that they’re sticking with beer. Affronted by their inappropriate beverage choices for the meal he has lovingly prepared, he pours himself another large glass and sullenly starts on his dinner.

He doesn’t join in with the conversation - for the most part he allows it to wash over him as he eats and drinks and then drinks some more. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Noct frowning as he hunts down vegetables and pushes them into a pile on the side of his plate. He drowns his annoyance in more wine.

Stealing a glance at Gladio - normally so good for his soul - is no better. Gladio is eating the paella, _enjoying_ it even, but it’s impossible to escape the notion that the other man would rather be eating his beloved Cup Noodles, even though Ignis would happily bet his life savings on the fact that he could pour boiling water over the contents of a vacuum cleaner and there would be no discernible difference in both aesthetics and taste.

And Prompto, always so appreciative of his culinary efforts. And yet he’s still smarting from Prompto's ' _it’s different when a girl cooks for you_ ' comment. Plus, he threw away the vesprooms, ruining the meal he’d so carefully planned and had been really, _really_ looking forward to. A meal that would have gone so beautifully with this exquisite wine.

Prompto downs his beer and belches loudly, patting his chest proudly for emphasis.

Noct laughs and challenges it with one of his own, his plate abandoned on the floor. Oh no. There’s absolutely _no way_ he is sitting through another belching contest. The memory of the last one is still fresh in his mind, plus the scuffle that followed afterwards when there was disagreement over who was the eventual winner.

“That's _it_ ,” he says, jumping up and surprising them all.

“What recipe have you invented now?” Noct asks, rolling his eyes at Prompto who laughs.

He blinks, then frowns, caught off-guard by the comment. “ _What_?”

Still laughing, Noct says, “You say 'that’s it' and so we ask you about whatever new recipe you’ve just dreamed up and then Gladio usually makes a comment about taste testing it.”

Noct looks to Gladio who grins and makes a _guilty as charged_ gesture.

“You see? It’s a _thing_.”

Ignis shakes his head like someone here has lost their mind, but he can’t quite work out who.

“No, what I mean is _that’s it_ , I’ve had quite enough of you lot. Noctis, I’m sorry, but you eat like a bloody five year old. When we go to diners, I’m amazed that they don’t offer you a place mat that you can colour in.”

Prompto laughs, which is evidently a mistake since the action succeeds in drawing attention to himself. With Prompto now in his sights, he rounds on the other man, the wine sloshing dangerously.

“You,” he says, stabbing a finger in Prompto's direction. “You and your _bloody_ chilli obsession. Sharing a tent with you is a complete nightmare.”

“Why?” Prompto asks, looking wounded whilst simultaneously turning slightly red.

“Why? _Why_ , he asks! The entire brass section of the Lucian Philharmonic Orchestra can’t produce as many different notes as your bloody backside.”

Noct snorts loudly, but he barrels on because let it be said, when Ignis Scientia is going in for the kill, he’s going to do it with deadly, ruthless precision until _no one_ is left standing.

So he takes a breath, and lets it all flood out of him. This is weeks of too close quarters. Of _sorry Ignis, I used up the last of your hair gel_ or _oh, I didn’t realise you were saving that can of Ebony, my bad_. Of fighting over who gets to ride shotgun and what music they should listen to. Of being kicked in the head whilst sleeping in a tent, or being last in the shower at some low-rent motel so that hot water is nothing but a beautiful but unobtainable dream.

Judging by their stunned expressions, it’s safe to say that Noct and Prompto are unprepared for this onslaught, but at this point he’s almost incapable of stopping until, out of his peripheral vision, he sees Gladio raising his hand. “Now hold up a minute, Iggy—”

“And you,” he snaps, seamlessly turning his ire on Noct's Shield. “Let's talk about your snoring, shall we? Frankly, if I wasn’t completely in love with you, I’d have murdered you in your sleep _years_ ago. I mean, there are bloody _behemoths_ that don’t make as much noise as you.”

He stops speaking abruptly at the sight of Gladio's face. Someone has hit Pause on this tableau and the other man sits frozen, whatever he was about to say losing its way somewhere between his cerebral cortex and his mouth. Then, all at once, the world comes back to life as someone - either Prompto or Noct - inhales sharply. Gladio's expression contorts several times, but Ignis never sees which emotion he settles on as he closes his eyes and turns his back to the group, clinging desperately to the possibility that this is just some horrible, overly-realistic, yet slightly twisted wish-fulfilment dream.

Even with his eyes shut it’s impossible to miss the leaden silence that’s descended. The crackle of the campfire seems jarringly loud in contrast. He’s always been the one to counsel caution with regards to being out at night, and yet running off headlong into the darkness somehow seems infinitely preferable to dealing with the fallout of his treacherous mouth.

“Guys,” he hears Gladio say, “Can you give us a few minutes?”

Whether it’s shock or just fortuitous timing, but both Noct and Prompto seem to have their brains fully engaged for once. There are no smart comments or laughter that accompany the shuffling of boots as they try to find somewhere within the confines of the haven that will offer the illusion of privacy. He hears the zipping of canvas, then waits a few beats longer.

“Gladio...” he starts to say, analysing all escape options and finding every single one of them - up to and including setting the campsite on fire - useless. What’s the point in running away from this conversation when they’ll be spending almost all of the following day in the car together? Nothing to improve an already torturously long car journey like an awkward atmosphere, after all.

“Is it true, Iggy?” Gladio asks. His voice is gentle, but that could mean anything from _I’m shocked but this is the best news I’ve heard all week_ to _I’m weighing up how best to kill you without the other two realising that your demise wasn’t down to an unfortunate accident whilst carrying your daggers._

Suddenly feeling remarkably sober, he decides there's no point avoiding the truth any longer. Gladio is watching him, so with a sigh he takes Noct's empty chair and faces him across the campfire.

“In the interests of full disclosure... yes, it’s true. I’ve been in love with you for a long time now, Gladio. At first I assumed it was simply a matter of physical attraction, born of our Crownsguard training sessions. I enjoyed having the opportunity to watch you fight and I found myself staring as you took other recruits through their paces; your fluidity and grace is a joy to behold. But after a while I realised it was deeper than that - more compelling. You have a natural affinity with people, Gladio; many times I’ve been captivated by how you’ve turned another round to your way of thinking through listening and empathising, instead of using strength or your position in the royal household to gain agreement that way.

“Your bond with Iris is a beautiful thing and she is a credit to _your_ love and guidance, as well as your father's. I am enamoured with the fact that you’re so well read, and I’m always thrilled when you want to discuss points of history or politics with me. I love your smile and your laugh, and I treasure the memories of the times that I’ve been the cause for either. So I apologise if this news is neither welcome nor reciprocated, Gladio, but since I was the one who inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, it would be disingenuous of me to backtrack and say it’s not true.”

He stops speaking and that awful, loaded silence rushes up to meet him once more. His eyes drop to the floor, awaiting the verdict on this unexpected, yet oddly cathartic outpouring.

“I actually meant about the snoring,” Gladio says solemnly.

For a horrible moment he actually thinks Gladio is being serious. His face fills with colour in a way that has nothing to do with the heat from the fire, the urge to flat-out panic almost painful in its intensity. Then he meets Gladio's gaze and sees the warmth and amusement there, and despite everything - every confusing, conflicting emotion firing through him simultaneously - he laughs.

Stupidly late, he realises that Gladio has moved and is now sitting next to him and there’s a hand touching his face. _How the devil did that get there?_ His pulse quickens and he swallows hard as his laughter fades. The way Gladio is looking at him is sending messages to the most interesting parts of his body.

“So can I kiss you now?” Gladio asks, his voice a low purr that matches the Regalia's engine (when it’s working, obviously).

“I believe that would be most agreeable,” he replies, which admittedly isn’t going to win any prizes for the most romantic thing to say. Any thoughts he has about bettering this comment scatter like birds as Gladio closes the distance between them and then—

Oh. _Oh_.

The kiss continues for what feels like a lifetime, and yet it’s still over too soon. His nerves are on fire and suddenly he’s hyper-aware of _everything_ , from the fascinating contrast between Gladio's soft lips and the stubble that surrounds them to the shadows of Noct and Prompto pressed against the zipped canvas as they try to eavesdrop on whatever’s going on outside. His eyes find Gladio's face again and they both smile.

“I hope I’m gonna get to do that again,” Gladio says.

“Why would you not?”

“Well, I dunno. It could just be the wine talking.”

“I’m not drunk, Gladio,” he replies indignantly.

“Really?” Gladio says, his eyes dancing with laughter once again. “You told Noct that that time he got turned into a frog, you barely noticed a difference, aside from the fact that there were fewer flies around. And to be fair, Prompto's feet _do_ smell like that cheese we found in Lestallum.”

“Oh good grief,” he mutters, putting his head in his hands. “I should go and apologise to them.”

“I wouldn’t worry. I think they found it funny too. You’re pretty entertaining when you get going.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“And nor should you,” Gladio says cheerfully, patting him on the back. “I like this Iggy. Makes me wonder what else you're like when you get the chance to loosen up.”

There’s no misinterpreting this comment and he smiles and blushes simultaneously. Truth is, he’s had _lots_ of ideas about the kinds of things he thinks they’d be excellent at together.

“But seriously,” Gladio continues, “if you need space or we ain’t pulling our weight with the chores then don’t bottle it up, okay? I don’t want wine to be the only thing that makes you talk about stuff.”

He considers Gladio's words and then nods.

“Would you care for a glass?” he asks gesturing towards the bottle at his feet.

“Sure.”

He pours some for Gladio, who gestures that they should toast this new and interesting development between them. After they do so, he becomes transfixed by the sight of Gladio closing his eyes as he savours his first mouthful, before swallowing and nodding appreciatively.

“Mmm, that’s good.” Gladio smiles. “You know what, Iggy? This wine'd go really nice with—”

“If the next words out of your mouth are Cup Noodles, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Gladio looks wounded. “I was gonna say Garulessa meat—”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Which obviously goes _really_ well with Cup Noodles.”

“Right. That’s it.”

“Another new recipe?”

“At this point, I will literally pay you to stop talking.”

“You could kiss me instead. Pretty sure that would work.”

So he does.

 

**End**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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